


Regarding the Events at Wycome

by chronolynx



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronolynx/pseuds/chronolynx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After learning of his failure to protect his clan, the Inquisitor withdraws to his quarters. Dorian won't leave him alone, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regarding the Events at Wycome

There is grief, and there is grief. Story of his people, time and again. But this is different: raw, white-hot, unfiltered by time or memory. On his desk, half-finished, sits a letter begun entirely too late, and he wonders what to do with it. With a thought, it turns to ash.

"Do you know," says Dorian from the stairs, unannounced but not unwelcome, "what they'll say if the Inquisitor shuts himself in his room for a week with hardly a word?" He waits for his audience to turn, their eyes to meet, before he continues, "Well neither do I. Shall we find out?"

"I don't plan to become a recluse, Dorian. I just..."

"You just thought it would be easier by yourself. To wallow in despair."

"I'm not wallowing."

"Forgive me.  _Drowning_ in despair. And really bad wine." He steps closer, subtle movement, less sure than his bravado implies. "I won't say I know what you're going through, but I'm no stranger to self-destructive coping strategies." His hand reaches out, stops short of touching his shoulder. He has no precedent for this; his face says as much.

The Inquisitor grabs hold of it. "And what, in your expert opinion, would you have me do?" An ambiguity in tone he hadn't intended. His thoughts are too muddled, no helping it.

"You could start with talking," he says, "and perhaps sharing enough wine that I can't tell how dreadful it is anymore." He sits down opposite the Inquisitor, the desk clear of anything save a bottle and a cup.

He pulls out another cup and fills it with wine. A red, he hadn't asked the vintage, but it was cheap and plentiful. There are two more bottles tucked away in a drawer. "Whenever our Keeper had a difficult decision to make, she would sit down with me like this, a cup of wine for each of us. I was her First, she said, and should know how to make these choices for myself some day."

Dorian downs his cup too quickly, almost chokes. From the taste as much as anything. "So what moral quandary do we face tonight?" he asks.

"The decision to do nothing," he says.

"And the alternative?"

"Raze the city to the ground, until even the memory of its name is forgotten."

"Those are rather extreme options," Dorian says. "Have you considered a sharply worded letter?"

"Yes. I burned it just before you came in."

"I suppose it's the thought that counts."

"They murdered my clan, Dorian." His cup is empty again already. "They were," he begins to say, before he makes another decision. "I had a brother."

Dorian's face goes pale. He pours them both more wine.

"I can't protect my people, I can't protect my family - Dorian, what use are the power and influence I wield if I can't even do that? And worse, that I can't do anything in retaliation?"

"You have more power than just an army," Dorian says. "You could open a dialogue--"

"The Dalish are tired of talking. This story is older than you and I both. The humans don't see that they've done anything wrong!" He stands abruptly, his cup knocked over with a gesture of his arm. "They'll say this was the result of an unfortunate misunderstanding and continue as they were, with no one held accountable."

"Who would you hold accountable?" Dorian says. "Their leaders? The soldiers? The people who watched? Everyone?" He raises his hand before him, palm facing up, and conjures a flame, bright and blue and restless. "When a mage saw the injustices laid upon his people and took decisive action about it, he sparked a war." The flame disappears with a pop.

"I am the Inquisitor. This is what I do."

"Then make an example. Summon leaders from the Marcher cities whose troops took part in it, and pass judgment on them."

"We can't afford more enemies, Dorian. They would return to their cities and ally with Corypheus before some knife-ear upstart down south."

"You have to be clever about it. You've been to Orlais, played the Game. Make it sound like you're doing them a favor, something they can't possibly refuse."

"Like what?"

"Alienages!" Dorian says as if the idea just struck him. "Tell them you'll offer the Inquisition's support in rebuilding the alienage in Wycome. But while you have their leaders here, have Leliana's people spread the word that they've promised to match your efforts in their own cities."

"Do you think that would work?"

"Leliana might have to employ a few extra layers of subterfuge, but it just might."

The Inquisitor raises his glass--faint trace of a smile--and drinks. "Oh, right," he says, "I spilled it all."

"You can have mine," Dorian says. "It'll take three bottles of the good stuff to wash that taste out."

The Inquisitor leans forward and kisses him. "Perhaps I can give you something else to taste," he says.

"Is this how you always end your war councils? I should sit in more often."

The wine sits forgotten at the desk, to be remembered at dawn. The Inquisitor does not sleep, though Dorian does, tangled in the other's limbs. He thinks of the letter he burned, and of the ones he must now write. Things will not go entirely to plan; they rarely do. There is grief, but there is hope, as well.


End file.
